


So Stinking Romantic

by youaremarvelous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic Fluff, Food Poisoning, M/M, Yuuri and Viktor are married, a lot of nicknames for penis because I am not mature, but like...not how it usually appears in fic, but not in the traditional sense, don't use Icy Hot on your mucous membranes this has been a psa, hemorrhoids, poop jokes, weenie roast, which isn't a tag so I'm glad I can introduce it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: This is commitment. This is love. It might be messy and chaotic and often gross, but it’s their lives and they can’t begin to fathom ever wanting to spend it with anyone else.or5 times domestic bliss wasn’t exactly what Yuuri and Viktor had expected it to be + the one (out of many) times it was





	So Stinking Romantic

**Author's Note:**

> rip my google history

“You okay?” Viktor takes Yuuri by the elbow when he trips over the threshold to their apartment after a particularly intense early off-season practice.

 

“Fine.” Yuuri walks stiff-legged through the door, leaning into Viktor’s side. “Sore.”

 

“Maybe 15 kilometers was pushing it.”

 

Yuuri groans in response. He leans his upper body over the kitchen counter and presses his cheek to the cool marble, staring wistfully at the kettle. He wonders if it would be possible to manifest a mug of tea simply by wanting it hard enough. He’d make it himself but he’s fairly certain his legs have been reconstituted into jello if the wobbling is any indication.  

 

“I’ll get the Icy Hot.” Viktor drops his backpack to the floor and squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder on his way to the medicine cabinet. He returns with a steaming mug of tea because he’s the best husband in the world and maybe a little bit psychic.

 

“C’mon, old man,” Viktor wraps an arm around Yuuri’s waists and hoists him into a standing position. Yuuri grumbles but allows Viktor to steer him step by shaky step to the couch. Viktor starts to pull down Yuuri’s pants once he’s comfortably seated, but Yuuri shakes his head in protest.

 

“I’ll do it,” he says, removing Viktor’s hand from his waistband. “You work on choreography.”

 

Viktor relents, dropping a kiss to the crown of Yuuri’s head. “Someone’s hungry for gold,” he teases, settling at the kitchen table with his laptop while Yuuri wriggles out of his sweatpants.  

 

“Can’t have people thinking the last one was a one-off,” Yuuri kicks his pants off his ankle and squirts a line of Icy Hot down each aching thigh.

 

“You mean a five-off?”

 

Yuuri huffs, kneading the ointment into his hard, corded muscles. “Still.”

 

They fall into a comfortable silence punctuated by Makkachin’s snores and the faint sound of Yuuri’s potential FS score floating from Viktor’s headphones. At some point, Yuuri drops the Icy Hot on the coffee table and leaves for the bathroom.

 

It’s normal post-practice routine and Viktor doesn’t pay much attention to it. Not at first, anyway. He starts to grow weary when ten minutes have elapsed without Yuuri’s reappearance. It’s not that Viktor ever sat down with the intention of memorizing the ins and outs of Yuuri’s bathroom habits, but after five years of cohabitation he’s learned some things unwittingly: including but not limited to the healthy state of his dear husband’s bowels.  

 

Yuuri is usually done with the bathroom in a matter of a few short minutes, maybe five if they’d decided to indulge in a late night ice cream run the evening before. Ten minutes, however, is completely unheard of and easily crossing over into alarm bell territory.

 

Viktor tries not to jump to conclusions: a valiant effort that involves skimming emails, half-listening to Yuuri’s program music, and sighing while tapping his finger on the tabletop. He’s always been praised for his creativity, but it mutates into something of a hamartia when his mind won’t stop torturing itself with all the various and sundry ways his husband could have somehow come to maim himself while using the restroom.

 

There’s no way Yuuri has been kidnapped by the Russian mafia due to a case of mistaken identity and an unfortunately placed bomb. _Is there_?

 

When the pipes groan from the shower being turned on and the minutes elapsed sans Yuuri has ticked over to twenty, Viktor is pacing in front of the bathroom, trying his hardest not to panic.

 

“Yura?” Viktor knocks lightly and leans his cheek against the door, listening intently for a reply. When there is none, he opens it a crack. “Yura, everything okay?”

 

The ensuing whimper is permission enough to enter. Viktor bursts through the door—heart in his throat—bracing himself for flayed limbs, gun-wielding gangsters, or maybe a dry drowning.

 

Probably unsurprisingly, none of those things are waiting for him on the other side, but instead the miserable (if slightly goofy) sight of his husband on his knees in the bath—straddling the faucet— pale-faced and shivering. “Vitya—” Yuuri looks up, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple—“don’t laugh.”

 

Viktor is so busy trying to parse together why Yuuri thinks his obvious distress would inspire laughter that it takes a full three seconds for the language center of his brain to deliver anything resembling English to his mouth. “Yura,” he says finally, stumbling across the short distance to his husband’s side, “what happened?”

 

“My hands,” Yuuri explains through gritted teeth, falling back on his butt when his tired legs give out beneath him. “I didn’t wash my hands.”

 

“I don’t-” Viktor starts to say, but realization hits him in the form of the sharp, minty smell of menthol.

 

Yuuri had gotten Icy Hot on his wiener.

 

Viktor knows it would be very wrong to laugh while his husband is in pain. _He_ knows it, but apparently his body didn’t get the message since a short giggle works its way unbidden from his throat.

 

“Vitya-a,” Yuuri whines, cupping frigid water in his hands in a feeble attempt to douse the scorching fire of a thousand suns currently trying to burn the life out of his sensitive foreskin.

 

“Sorry, solnishko,” Viktor placates. He crouches next to the tub and takes his phone from his pocket. “Let me just call Yakov-”

 

“Wha—no!” Yuuri tries to grab for Viktor’s phone but his hand slips out from under him and his head thumps against the back shower wall.

 

“Yura!” Viktor grabs Yuuri by the shoulder and hoists him back into a seated position. He combs his fingers through Yuuri’s damp hair, gently palpating his scalp for lumps while Yuuri winces and reaches up to turn off the water. “What do you want me to do?” Viktor asks because he’s honestly at a loss. ‘How to save your husband’s donger from Icy Hot induced penicide’ was not a topic covered in any of the numerous marital advice articles Viktor had scoured post engagement. “Should I call Phichit?”  

 

“Just...ice,” Yuuri chokes out. It’s the only thing he can imagine might stand up to the pain of what feels like accidentally teabagging a vat of habanero chilli oil while simultaneously receiving a blowjob from Father Winter.  

 

Viktor bursts back into the bathroom less than a minute later with a dark blue compress and a magazine folded under his arm. The ice is murder on the poor, abused skin surrounding Yuuri’s pelvic region, but it does seem to help in the sense that it numbs everything from his hip down and knee up. At the very least, his thighs don’t hurt as much anymore, even if his balls have beaten a hasty retreat into his body. Yuuri thinks his dick would’ve joined them ages ago if not for how sad and swollen it is.

 

‘ _This is it_ ,’ Yuuri thinks, tears in his eyes as Viktor fans his crotch with the IFS August issue. ‘ _This is how I die_.’

 

The burning _does_ finally abate after forty long minutes of gripping the edge of the tub with a white-knuckled grip and weighing the pros and cons of performing an at-home penectomy. Yuuri lets Viktor carry him to the bed when he feels like he can move without his dick dropping to his feet.  

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri warns when Viktor’s fingers linger suspiciously close to his crotch while pulling up the sheets. “Not tonight.”

 

Viktor has to laugh because it’s honestly hilarious that Yuuri thinks he would dream of going anywhere near his angry, beet red willy. He blames it on the shock of almost losing his peener to the vengeful fire gods of medicinal muscle creams. “Not tonight,” he agrees.  

 

+

 

“Yura.” Viktor pulls his knees back, tapping the crown of Yuuri’s head when he starts nosing his way from Viktor’s dick to southward territory. “Not tonight.”

 

“Oh, sure,” Yuuri sits back on his heels, hair tousled and red-cheeked. It’s not uncommon for either of them to set boundaries mid-coitus, but it’s also not exactly typical for Viktor to turn down an opportunity to be eaten out. “Everything okay?” He asks, rubbing the side of Viktor’s calf—hesitant to continue without confirmation.

 

Viktor starts to nod but decides against it last second. It’s not fair to withhold information, especially when he’s always giving Yuuri a hard time for not consulting him with his worries. “Well…” Viktor squirms, he pulls himself up against the headrest. “It’s probably nothing, but…”

 

Yuuri sits with his hands on Viktor’s knees, a ball of tension winding up in his chest.

 

“It’s just. I’ve been...a little—” Viktor pauses, waiting for the right word to find its way to his tongue—“uncomfortable?”

 

“Uncomfortable how?” Yuuri drapes himself across the bed to grab his glasses from the nightstand. The conversation seems important enough to necessitate the full range of his corrected vision. “Physically or—”

 

“Physically,” Viktor confirms quickly. He wonders how he can broach this topic gracefully before deciding: screw it. Might as well approach it with the same impulsivity he has the rest of his life and just go for the gold. “It’s uh...my butthole.” Yuuri doesn’t flinch, and Viktor isn’t sure if the feeling that swells in his chest is one of pride or overwhelming affection. He _does_ know that he refuses to get choked up over a conversation about his butthole, no matter how sweet and sympathetic the look Yuuri’s giving him is. “It’s been kind of irritated lately? It burns when I wipe,” he clarifies, “and sometimes there’s blood.”

 

“Oh—” Yuuri’s shoulders relax a little—“it sounds like a hemorrhoid.”

 

“That’s what I thought, too!” Viktor says. He doesn’t bring up the twenty minute crisis he had after reaching that conclusion because _god_ is he really old enough to be getting hemorrhoids now? Yuuri knows him well enough that the age-related dramatics are probably inferred, anyway. “I tried to check it in the mirror but I couldn’t really see.”

 

“Do you want me to take a look?” Yuuri asks, already scooting away to allow Viktor room to turn over onto his stomach.  

 

Viktor nods, eyes shining. “Could you?” He rolls over, folding his knees under him to give Yuuri easier access.  

 

“Oh, honey,” Yuuri says, gently pulling apart his cheeks to reveal the source of Viktor’s discomfort. “It looks painful. Let’s make an appointment with the doctor in the morning, okay?”

 

Viktor isn’t sure if it’s the rarely used term of endearment that tips him over the edge or the fact that Yuuri sounds genuinely concerned over his rectal health, but this time the tears flood his eyes before he can stop them.  

 

“Vitya?” Yuuri sits up, eyes wide with alarm when he realizes his husband is blubbering into his pillow. “Are you okay?” He asks, rubbing gentle circles into Viktor’s back. “Let’s just call a cab and go to the ER.”      

 

“No, no, I’m fine,” Viktor sniffs, taking Yuuri by the wrist and pulling him down next to him on the bed. He stares into Yuuri’s eyes—or as best he can through the tears fogging his vision. “I just really love you.”

 

Yuuri smiles—understanding—and leans their foreheads together. “I really love you, too.”

 

+

 

“What are your thoughts on dinner?” Viktor asks when Yuuri stops for a water break during morning practice.

 

“It’s eight fucking am,” Yurio says from the other side of the rink.

 

“I was thinking maybe stroganoff?” Viktor continues, ignoring him.

 

Yuuri grimaces and uncaps his water bottle. “We just had stroganoff.”

 

“That was a week ago.”

 

“Right.” Yuuri finishes drinking and hands Viktor his bottle, pushing off the boards to resume his routine.

 

“Tempura?” Viktor asks between telling Yuuri to tighten his free leg and relax his shoulders for his ina bauer.

 

Yuuri opens his mouth before pausing, closing it, and shaking his head. “I don’t think the kitchen has recovered from the last time.”

 

“It was only a _small_ fire,” Viktor waves his hand, dismissive. Honestly, they hadn’t even had to call the fire department or visit the ER. He’d considered the meal an overall success (what was one singed pot holder and a minor vegetable oil burn in the grand scheme of things), but Yuuri obviously had unrealistic standards. “Olivier salad, then?”

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri playfully pats his husband’s butt. “You know the doctor said dairy’s not good for your hemorrhoid.”

 

They both smirk at the sound of Yurio dry heaving.

 

“Well, what do you suggest?” Viktor asks later over lunch.

 

“For what?”

 

“Dinner.”

 

Yurio rolls his eyes, shoving half his sandwich into his mouth. “You idiots are _still_ going on about that?”

 

“You should ask Twitter,” Mila suggests, glancing up from her phone.

 

“The last time we did that we got pulled into an argument with Gordon Ramsey,” Yuuri says, blanching at the memory.

 

“What kind of monster eats _mayonnaise_ with herring?” Viktor asks, growing angry at the memory. “Pickled onion _maybe_ , but—”

 

“We could have omurice?” Yuuri offers. He knows better than to let his husband start up on another monologue about the finer points of Russian cuisine.

 

Viktor pokes Yuuri in his unprotected side. “You always suggest omurice.”

 

Yuuri flinches and shields himself with his hands. He doesn’t mention that omurice is one of the few meals he knows how to make, barring his creative college concoctions. He and Viktor are well aware of their own culinary shortcomings, and they have great plans to remedy it via a local spousal cooking class. Eventually.

 

“Okroshka?” Viktor proposes.

 

“Hemorrhoid.” Yuuri says simply, sighing.

 

Yurio gags over his lunch and Yuuri only just manages to hide a laugh into his water. “You want to see a picture of it?” He asks Yurio, tapping open the camera app on his phone.

 

“We named him Denis,” Viktor adds.

 

Yurio slams his fork down and stands, shouting, “you’re both fucking disgusting,” over his shoulder as he leaves for a quieter, less hemorrhoid populated place to continue eating.

 

Mila watches Yurio stomp off with an amused smile. “You guys should try one of those meal subscription boxes.”

 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow and looks at Viktor. It’s actually a decent idea. It would end these daily meal-based arguments, give them the opportunity to extend their culinary knowledge, and cut back on grocery store visits—something they both dread: Viktor, for how often his husband nags at him for not checking prices before tossing items in the cart (“Vitya, those olives cost 500 rubles!”), and Yuuri, for all the times they are stopped for long conversations with the many wrinkly babushkas that seem to inhabit the produce section.  

 

They decide after much deliberation and Internet searching to subscribe to a month of a box that offers healthy meal options and—when possible—locally sourced produce. It’s with great expectations that they open their first box a week later after practice.

 

“Hmm,” Viktor hums, picking up a wrapped parcel and turning it around in his hand. “Is chicken supposed to look like that?”

 

+

 

Turns out, chicken is most definitely _not_ supposed to look like that.

 

It’s also probably not great for a hemorrhoid, Viktor thinks as he drags himself from the couch to the bathroom for the fifth time that evening. He leans his forehead against the doorframe, trying to ignore the horrible noises coming from inside the room and for the first time in his life wishing he had rented an apartment with two baths.

 

“Solnishko, you about done in there?” He tries to sound as sympathetic as is possible while teetering on the verge of shitting his pants.

 

“Tell my parents I love them,” Yuuri whimpers from the toilet. He can only imagine that his stomach is on an unauthorized mission to turn itself inside out by the force with which his body is expelling reconstituted dinner from both ends. At this point—shaking with cold sweats and struggling to breathe through his nausea—he’s losing both the will and the energy to stop it.

 

Viktor feels a surge of sympathy through the noxious churning in his belly. Yuuri had been faring worse than him—a fact he will eventually hold over his head because this really makes Viktor the clear winner of the ‘ _who had a grosser teenage diet_ ’ competition they’d been silently waging for months, but...later. For now, he just wants his husband to feel better. “You want me to hold your hand?” Viktor asks, fully expecting to be rejected.

 

It’s with great surprise (and mild concern) that Viktor’s offer is met with a whimpered, “okay.” Viktor pushes the door open to find his husband on the toilet—pale-faced and shaking with tear tracks staining his cheeks and his pants around his ankles. In another life, the sight might inspire embarrassment or even amusement, but Viktor is way too far gone to feel anything other than overwhelming affection for the shivering boy in his bathroom.

 

He sits himself on the side of the tub, holding Yuuri’s clammy hand and rubbing circles on his back whenever his stomach contracts with painful cramps. He doesn’t exactly forget his own warring intestines, but it serves as a decent distraction for at least the first ten minutes before the gurgling storm in his gut grows too intense to ignore.

 

Viktor clenches hard when he’s struck with a particularly strong spasm. “Darling,” he gasps out between battering waves of pain, “do you think I could have the toilet for a second?”

 

Yuuri sniffs and flushes, not so much standing from the toilet as crumpling to the floor at the base of it. The way is clear for Viktor but he’s unable to move, or at least, unable to move if he wants to maintain his 25 year streak of managing his day to day life without soiling his pants (he decidedly does not count the night in Beijing with Chris since he was too drunk at the time to remember it).    

 

“It’s okay,” Yuuri pats his ankle, lacking the energy to lift himself any higher. He understands Viktor’s struggle without him having to vocalize it. He guesses this must be the telepathy his married friends had always bragged about. “We have a washing machine.”

 

“We have a washing machine,” Viktor laughs through his tears, even as his body gives up the fight and evacuates the source of his agony into his sweatpants.

 

Not the proudest moment of his life, but he doesn’t mind it as much when Yuuri kisses his forehead and holds him through a shaky-limbed shower.

 

“Let’s skip practice tomorrow,” Yuuri says when they’ve finally made it to bed. It’s formality more than anything, it had taken a monumental effort—including but not limited to: begging Makkachin to carry them, copious amounts of crawling, and a handful of tears—just to make it the short trek from the bathroom to the bedroom. Trying to balance on ice in their current state would be nothing short of a hazard (bio and otherwise) to them and their fellow skaters.  

 

“No skating,” Viktor confirms. He can’t even remember a time when they were able to stand without the threat of their stomachs falling out of their butts. “But let’s _do_ text Yurio about this in the morning,” he yawns, nuzzling his face into the nape of Yuuri’s neck.

 

“In gory detail,” Yuuri agrees, already drifting off to sleep.

 

+

 

Viktor isn’t sure how much time has passed when he wakes, but the room is dark and his stomach is considerably more settled than it had been earlier. He feels leagues better in general, if not for the slight chill that has settled in post intestinal mutiny.

 

Viktor roots around the bed—finding the hem of the sheet tucked around his husband’s hips—and yanks as hard as his electrolyte depleted body will allow. It’s not unusual for Yuuri to unknowingly wrap himself up in their covers—unaccustomed as he is to the bitter Russian weather—but Viktor has never before had to struggle so hard to unearth them. Viktor is just about to give up after five minutes of fruitless tugging when Yuuri snuffles to consciousness beside him.  

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri’s voice is rough and sharp. He throws an arm over his eyes, clearly annoyed at having been pulled from sleep by his husband’s rustling. “Why are you pulling on my underwear?”

 

“Your—what?” Viktor pulls back the thick duvet and immediately dissolves into a fit of giggles when he realizes his hand is not wrapped around the sheet as he had presumed but rather the back of his husband’s boxer briefs. A wake-up call via wedgie wouldn’t be pleasant. Viktor can’t exactly blame him for his foul mood.

 

“Sorry, solnishko,” Viktor manages through muffled laughter, “go back to sleep.”

 

+

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri whispers, shaking Viktor’s shoulder. “Makkachin pooped in the bath.”

 

“Happens,” Viktor yawns. He tries to open his eyes but is accosted by the, frankly, obnoxious brightness of the sun shining through their bedroom windows. Whatever time it is, the gentle light of morning has long since fled. “Like dog, like owner.”

 

Yuuri snorts and brushes back Viktor’s bangs from his forehead. “You feeling better today?”

 

Viktor answers by pulling his head into Yuuri’s lap and squeezing him hard around his waist.

 

“Careful,” Yuuri warns, combing his fingers through Viktor’s hair. “That might still be dangerous.”

 

Viktor laughs and rolls over on his back so he can see his husband’s face, and they stare at each other silently—the events of the last few days settling over them. It’s strange that pride would be the thing to manifest between them, but it’s there—throat tightening and heavy—weighing down their hearts.

 

This is commitment. This is love. It might be messy and chaotic and often gross, but it’s their lives and they can’t begin to fathom ever wanting to spend it with anyone else.  

 

‘ _This is it_ ,’ Viktor thinks, watching Yuuri stare down at him, hair sticking out on one side of his head and a dried line of drool on his chin. ‘ _This is what I’ve been searching for_.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> direct your hate [thusly](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/)


End file.
